


show me how to lie

by acerbicsarcasm



Series: learning, after the fact [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Blatant use of the Peter Nureyev Alias Generator™, Dahlia Rose again, Fluff and Angst, Nureyev never actually went to school but talks some big game, Other, POV Juno Steel, Post S2, Reunion Fic, Sleeplessness, be gay do crimes in SPACE, everyone needs a refreshing crying session, regret and no one actually talking like they should, the obligatory shower scene of sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicsarcasm/pseuds/acerbicsarcasm
Summary: After deciding to leave Mars with Buddy's crew, Juno has to learn to adjust to this new grey world of boundaries and laws in the lawless void of space; and to Peter Nureyev's presence aboard the same ship.





	1. when you walk away

**Author's Note:**

> Titles for all chapters in this work from “You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid” by The Offspring.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hacking up a lung in the cold Martian desert, Juno and Rita join a crew ready to wreck some havoc on the corrupt debt collectors haunting the solar planets. But this crew also includes Peter Nureyev, and there’s a lot that has been left unsaid between them.

Spaceships and submarines have similar levels of privacy.

Once, hundreds of years ago before Juno had dropped out, Old Town Primary had gone on an excursion to the Museum of Colonised History. As if letting thirty tiny children loose in a building of priceless artefacts was a good idea.

Juno remembers very little of that day, only the fight he got into at lunch and the resulting split lip, and the game of hide-and-seek he played after sneaking away from the group with Ben. A game that took them through replicas of early dome houses, various bits of replicated spacecraft, and one old submarine that had been deployed to tunnel through one of Mars’s ice caps.

He remembers hiding in the pipes and tubes, the replica looking older and more worn than the real thing likely ever did. He remembers the tang of copper and iron in his hidey-hole, the curve of recycled air pipes and impenetrable hull pressing into the small of his back as he waited with a fist stuffed in his mouth to keep from laughing.

He remembers Ben’s face swimming into view, the triumphant “Gotcha!” and the ensuing chase.

This ship feels similar in its cramped quarters, a tiny interplanetary hauler designed for minimal crew and maximal load. They’ve stretched it to capacity with the six of them.

Juno wanders through the rooms in a daze. Every hallway is encased in tubes and wires that require half a jig to circumnavigate, barely large enough for two people to pass by each other if they both turn. The bathrooms double as showers, barely large enough to turn around in. The mechanised mess has a few seats with no built-in elbow room. The bunks, three high on each side, are narrow enough that if you roll over too quickly you’ll wake with cold corridor beneath your cheek.

The cockpit — if it could be called that, Juno is no expert on ship terminology — is the only place with an inch of space to spare. Two upholstered seats, not unlike those in a normal automobile, allow the pilot and co-pilot to sit side-by-side, with enough room for another person to stand between them. This is the only spot on the vessel that has any space to speak of.

 

____________

 

_“Hello, Juno. It’s been a while.”_

_He had to hold himself back from speaking that name, the name he wanted to let slip so badly, the name he wanted to taste between his teeth again. He settled for a nod, unsure of what alias the thief was using this time and unwilling to trust his voice._

_He threw in an involuntary dust-infused cough, for good measure._

_Those sharp teeth flashed in a teasing smirk. Nureyev slid off the hood of the Ruby 7, the car as polished as the man._

_“It is time to be underway,” declared Jet, and he dragged Rita’s suitcase up into the belly of the ship, as Buddy and Vespa proceeded with the checks to the bay’s ramp. It closed behind Juno with a pneumatic hiss._

_“Juno. It’s good to see you again. You remember Vespa, don’t you darling?” Buddy turned away before he could answer. “Rita. Welcome to the crew. It’s truly lovely to have you aboard.”_

_Juno could practically see Rita salivating. Buddy was as much a bombshell as ever. “Uh — it’s —you’re —”_

_“Quite,” said Buddy._

_“Come,” Jet interjected. “I will show you to your bunks.”_

_Keenly aware of Nureyev, all six lean feet of him, standing behind him, Juno followed on Rita and Jet’s heels._

 

_____________

 

Juno can identify the owners of each bunk in moments. Each has a headboard with two slotted shelves for personal affects, and a large lockable chest at the foot for clothes and larger items.

Rita begins the fruitless task of attempting to shove her entire suitcase into the locker of the bottommost bunk on the left. Buddy and Vespa must have the two bunks above that. Vespa’s contains a field medicine kit and several novels as well as a set of finely polished throwing knives, the type for competitions. Buddy’s contains several elaborate glass-blown decanters of whisky and a tablet-looking device that is newer than anything else on the ship, alongside a collection of jewellery with stones so large Juno isn’t sure he could fit them in one pocket if he tried.

With a sigh, he turns to the bunks opposite. The top and the bottom are occupied. The bottom, spartan and neatly made, must be Jet’s. The top … the most elaborately carved make-up box he’s ever seen takes up half of one shelf, beside neatly hung necklaces and a collection of those ear pieces he’s seen Nureyev wear on more than one occasion, designed to cuff around the top of the ear and slip through a piercing in the lobe, creating a dangling piece of art. Nick-knacks and tiny items fill the rest of the shelves, and Juno’s eye falls on an industrial plasma cutter. There is also a roll of what might be pencils.

And, of course, the bunk itself is littered with a dozen pillows.

With a sigh, Juno places the duffel of clothes he brought on the middle bunk. Looks like he’s not on top this time. Again.

He leans forward, suddenly exhausted, and thuds his head repeatedly on his mattress, rhythmically.

Vespa’s voice crackles over the intercom system as Juno draws the curtains shut over his bunk. The fabric is floral.

_“We’re leaving Martian airspace in three minutes, so buckle up.”_

Her voice hasn’t lost that harsh raspiness, but it has gained coherence. That might be the longest sentence Juno has ever heard from her.

“The recreational rooms are this way,” Jet says. “We also use them as our meeting rooms.”

Rita follows and Juno trails, listening to her babble spilling over in her excitement.

“Is there a place for me to upload my streams? I brought a couple million, just in case — I wanted to bring ten million, but I only got to three, because of the short notice and all — if you already have some of them then I can clear up some space for more whenever we land — OH OH OH! Mr Jet, have you seen _The Marionettes from Planet Puppetron?”_

“I have not.”

“Well it turns out it’s really, really good! _I_ thought I made it up, with all these smilies and meta-whatsits I was tryin’ ta use when I was explaining something to Mr Steel, but it’s real! I brought the sequels too —”

Peter Nureyev is not in the recreation room. Buddy is, legs crossed in a chair that reclines, and she gestures to the other seats around the table. These don’t look like they came with this rickety old ship, and Juno’s thankful for that. Rita keeps babbling as they all take their seats.

Small screens show the view from the cockpit. The Martian desert, endless and burnt sienna red, extends in every visible direction. The beginnings of a cloud of dust from the thrusters begins to cloud the vision of the cameras, and Juno closes his eye as he grips the arm rests until his knuckles pale.

He’s pressed back into his seat. Buddy says something, but he’s not listening. He lets Rita’s voice talk him through this, her words forming a comforting stream of background noise that he clings to as takeoff gets louder.

He stays in that welcoming darkness behind his eyelid for the duration of takeoff.

When they finally get into space, he lets himself bask in the silent gasp of Rita’s awe, and he imagines the view; receding Mars, red and growing smaller, dotted by the bluish domes of a dozen cities. The belch of smaller volcanoes and the rumble of storms across the surface. The void of darkness, punctuated by stars that are clearer than anything he’s ever seen before, that awaits them.

Rita’s monologue eventually picks up again, and Buddy lets it, Jet occasionally replying to Rita’s rapid-fire questions.

Juno Steel, ex-cop, ex-PI, opens his eye and soaks in his surroundings and the people and voices that are going to accompany him for this next chapter. Particularly that one, smooth voice that slides over the intercom like silk.

 _“Next stop, Venus_ ,” Peter Nureyev announces, and Juno feels the adjustment of the ship’s course, and settles in for the wait.

 

__________

 

It’s a good thing Juno Steel has experience in stake-outs. Waiting is simply being prepared to reap the benefits of the long game. As much as he loves an easy, quick case, the worthwhile ones tended to drag.

This is no exception.

Vespa and Nureyev hadn’t emerged from the cockpit before Juno had slammed into his sheets and fallen asleep, queasy from recycled air and exhausted from — well, everything. He is always tired, when it came down to it.

The trip to Venus will take three days. That means he and Rita have three days to be brought up to speed on the heist that Buddy and Vespa had been planning for the better part of three months. She has insisted that Juno and Rita use their first evening to come to terms with ship life. Juno acquiesces with little resistance.

He sleeps for thirteen hours, solid, undreaming, and uninterrupted. When he finally wakes, the dim light of the hall barely the hint of a glow through his bunk curtains, he lies in the dim for several more moment. Idly, he traces a scar along the bottom of his ribs with a callused finger, waking up slowly.

Juno’s torso is a collection of marks that tell stories, from nipple piercings to old pale scars that stand out on his dark skin, to faded burn marks from old cases and old chases. The ship is warm and the bunks slightly stuffy, so it had taken a few seconds for him to strip to his boxers before collapsing to sleep.

He tugs on pants now, glancing around his drawn curtains. All three of the bunks opposite have their hangings drawn flush with the walls, and the light in the hall is barely a faint suggestion of a glow. It must be night. What passes for night, out here in space.

Slipping from his bunk with the light tread he’s perfected over three decades, Juno makes his way back to the recreational room.

He makes coffee from an instant mix and sips while he walks, exploring the nooks and crannies that Jet didn’t bother to show him. Up two short hallways, to storage lockers and a tiny gym, the soft beep of equipment playing accompaniment to the silence of the early hour. Then up another hallway, back to the vehicle and storage bay, where he stares once again at that car he thought he’d never see again, and then up another hallway to the mess and fully automated kitchen.

He chooses rehydrated lasagne from an electronic screen and eats slowly, looking out a porthole-like window into the blackness beyond. There are stars, he can see them faint in the distance, unflickering, but the view is underwhelming. Perhaps this window is simply too small to see properly. Or it’s tinted.

He leaves his dishes to be washed and takes his cold coffee with him down the final hall, to the cockpit and control rooms.

With his limited knowledge of anything electric that beeps and makes noise, he leaves the control room well alone. But as the door to the cockpit slides open with the slightest hiss, he gapes. His jaw drops fully open.

Now _this …_ this is a view.

In front of him, beyond the frame of a thousand softly glowing buttons and knobs and screens, lies the Milky Way. The condensed brilliance of millions of stars stretches across the domed cockpit. The combined light illuminates his face in the glass, so he can see his own five o’clock shadow, wild bed head, and dully glinting piercings in the majesty of a hundred thousand constellations.

Mouth still slightly slack, Juno slips into the co-pilot’s seat, noting the ‘ _AUTOPILOT ENGAGED: ROUTE PROVIDED_ ’ stamped across the main navigational panel. Careful not to knock anything important, he draws his legs up until his knees are at his chest.

For an instant, clutching cold coffee, shirtless in the starlight, he feels almost like a child. An innocent one, this time, with nothing to do but stare in wonder at something new.


	2. drifting closer in your sights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Juno and Rita prep for their first heist and attempt to figure out this plan that has been laid out for them, Juno wrestles with the silence of the thief he’ll be entrusting with his life.

> **DAY 1**
> 
>  

It is Vespa who finds Juno there, several hours later. He’s unsure if he falls back to sleep, but he certainly snaps to attention at the sound of her voice behind him.

“Outta my seat, Steel.”

Juno scrambles to stand, words running over themselves. “Sorry I didn’t know this one was yours, and, you know, no one was using it or anything. I didn’t touch anything of course, I know you had it all calibrated, but you know how it is, first night on a new spaceship, no one expects you to actually sleep, do they?”

Vespa merely fixes those dark eyes on him. Her gaze reminds him of handcuffs — narrow and cold.

“You know,” continues Juno after the frigid pause, “I’ll just grab some breakfast. Early morning is when I do my best crime. And my best sleep, usually, but I’ve already had coffee so it looks like I’m starting a new habit. Nothing like an early morning out here where there’s no way to measure time!”

That unnerving stare follows him as the door closes. He sighs, then straightens and tries to remember which way is which. It all looks different lit in this harsh cold light of ‘day’, compared to the soft night lights that lit the halls during his nighttime wander.

He picks a direction and starts walking. Only he could get himself lost on a ship this small.

 

___________

 

When he realises he’s going to have to see Nureyev regularly, hell, _every morning_ perhaps, his stomach simultaneously flips and plummets. The mess room is empty, save for Peter, already dressed in long tailored slacks and a pale blue blouse that seems to be — is that mesh?

Suddenly Juno realises how much of Nureyev’s skin he can see and … it’s a lot. The way he moves, even in those heels — his dangling earrings dancing in the chilly artificial light, the sway of his hips with every movement —

Juno realises his mouth is dry. He swallows, then pretends to clear his throat, announcing his arrival as he steps through the doorway. _Breakfast_ , he chants to himself. _Breakfast. I’m here for breakfast_.

Nureyev doesn’t even turn. “Good morning, detective.”

Breakfast is forgotten. “Good morning, _Glass_ ,” Juno snaps, biting off the end of that old alias. So this is how things are going to be? Back to being detective and — someone? Hell, Juno doesn’t know what Nureyev is right now. Who he is right now. “What are they calling you now?”

“Alaric Kingston, at present,” says Nureyev, without any of the tremors Juno hears in his own voice. Smooth as ever. “Though in a group like this, I doubt any of them believe this particular pseudonym to have any truth to it.”

“Probably not. Buddy’s pretty sharp.”

“She certainly knows her business.” A plate of rehydrated eggs and hash and defrosted toast presents itself, and as Nureyev takes it, he looks at Juno for the first time. That same cocky smile from the night before slips easily across his face, drawn as casually as Juno would have drawn the curtains around his bunk. “And I can’t wait to see how Juno Steel, private eye, does in this line of work.”

Nureyev brushes past him.

The realisation settles over Juno like a net and he’s frozen in the centre of the room. That sly smile was the same grin Rex Glass had brandished at him for hours on end, a grin that declared one thing and one thing only; Nureyev was very likely going to attempt to kill Juno by teasing him to death. Teasing him with that smirk, with that sheer blouse, with every sway of his hips, with every biting comment.

This was going to be a long, drawn-out torture.

Juno’s head tilts up to the ceiling and he lets out a long strangled groan from deep inside his chest.

“Hey boss, what’cha moanin’ about?”

“Oh Rita, I —”

He has to blink twice. Rita, all five tiny feet of her, bounds towards him with the same bouncy enthusiasm he has learned to anticipate every working day at 8am sharp, but to contrast her tulle skirt and polka dots her hair is dyed a bright, vivid green.

“You changed your hair?”

“Uh-huh.” She leans towards him, batting her eyelashes.

“It looks —” _bright— “_ nice.”

“Aww!” Rita’s cheeks flush pink, and she twirls a lock around her finger. “Thanks boss!”

He wants to tell her she shouldn’t be calling him boss, especially since she’s technically making more than him, but he feels the pang of those nostalgic moments well up inside him and lets it slide.

“Did you bring hair dye in that suitcase of yours?”

“Nope! Vespa had some! She helped me do it.”

Juno can’t help but let the curl of the smile that’s welling up inside him spill over. “That’s nice Rita. It really is.”

He means it. Does he sound sincere? He forgets how to sound sincere sometimes.

“Thanks boss. Now, budge over, I need food too.”

 

__________

 

“This heist is merely a step toward another,” Jet says. He has a slide presentation to accompany him. Of course he does. “There are several Cure Mother refinery prototypes on various planets. We already possess the blueprints and the operation instructions, but lack the resources to build the machinery ourselves.”

“Perhaps we should have gotten ourselves an engineer,” Juno remarks drily.

“We have already run the cost-benefit analyses. It was determined that an extra fighter and marksman with intimate knowledge of law enforcement would be a more efficient investment than an engineer, as we will need to acquire the Cure Mother itself after we have secured the refinery machinery, regardless. May I continue, Juno?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He slinks down in his seat. He’s seated between Vespa and Rita. Buddy and Nureyev are in the cockpit. Juno doesn’t know what requires two people — they left the ship on autopilot for the whole night, why do they both need to be there now? He can’t help the growing suspicion that Nureyev is avoiding him,

“There are six copies of the working prototype. Three are located in mines.” The locations flash up on the most detailed map of the inhabited zones of the galaxy that Juno has ever seen. “The fourth is held by the patent office. The fifth will be auctioned off next month. The sixth is held in the private collection of Elizabeth Li. We will attempt to acquire the copy held by the Venusian patent office. The copy to be auctioned off we will hold as a reserve option, should anything go wrong.”

“Why not the one Elizabeth has?” Rita asks. “Private collections get burgled all the time! It happen in every soap —”

“That is a good question Rita. The answer is simple. It is too straightforward. There is a high likelihood that the copy contained within Mx. Li’s collection is a decoy. The blueprints of their collection were too easy to acquire. It is most likely a trap.”

“That makes sense!”

“Thank you. We think so too.” The next slide flashed up on the screen. “This is the location of the patent office. It is located within the main framework of the Venusian capital, Vulcan. We will use the nearby dome Adonis as our base of operations. Adonis does not have any landing ports, so we will land in Anchises and dock the ship there. Rita, Buddy and I will stay within the Anchises dome.”

Juno starts, and meets Vespa’s eyes. She gazes back at him coolly. “You up for this, Steel?”

“Who, me?” He feels as though his voice has gone up. “Of course. I’ve been breaking and entering since I was twelve.”

“I doubt you infiltrated secure buildings operated by one of the most powerful and richest governments in the solar systems at the age of twelve,” says Jet.

“This is a step up, I’ll admit. But I always love a challenge.”

“Good, because this will be one.” Jet turns back to his presentation. “Alaric will be posing as a Dark Matters agent, on special dispatch from Neptune. Vespa will be posing as his assistant. Juno will be a fence that they have successfully arrested and are bring back for Venusian trial.”

“I’m a _what_ now?” Juno points at Vespa. “Isn’t she a little more believable?”

Rita is sniggering behind her hand and hiding it badly.

“One of us can pretend to be a hardened agent, Steel,” Vespa spits at him. “It ain’t you.”

Juno’s mouth goldfishes, and he shuts it abruptly.

“Will you agree to participate, Juno?” Jet asks. “This particular plan will not function without your consent. Should you change your mind, we will have to delay our plans.”

“No, no,” he says, stifling a sigh. “This plan is fine.”

“Good. Vespa will handle the official paperwork and processing of your arrest. She will also bug the computers she uses to file the report and provide Rita with remote access to the building’s security grid, which is kept entirely offline. Vespa will then secure your escape route with Rita and my assistance.

“Alaric and Juno will proceed to the holding cells. Juno, you will be placed in a holding cell.”

“How have I survived without this kind of fun?” Juno mutters.

“Would you like to repeat that, Juno?”

“It’s okay.”

“Good. Alaric will proceed to the storage rooms, which are the level below the holding cells. Juno, you will have to create a distraction and remove the guards in your corridor.”

Juno bites his lip. How exactly is he supposed to do that?

“We will provide you with the necessary equipment,” Jet says, as if reading Juno’s mind. “Alaric will use the corridor that you have cleared as a means of exit and collect you. Then, using the delivery tunnels that are set aside for large items of sensitive nature that require storage in the same area of the compound, you will both pose as delivery drivers and exit the building. Rita will provide the vehicle by reprogramming the automated delivery schedule.

“Do you have any questions?”

 

__________

 

Juno’s head spins with blueprints and weapons and names and cover stories as he finally made his way back to his bunk. They had eaten in the recreational room, which had now become a work room plastered on every wall with floor plans, timelines, and schematics. Jet and Rita had spent a long time discussing the details of the wireless transmitter Vespa would be using to connect the ship’s — the _Rover’s —_ systems to the office’s.

He’d heard about Venus. The pleasure dens, the corruption, the elaborate holiday getaways and superb art, the homelessness and income gap. Venus was the luxury centre of the galaxy. It was also the planet with the greatest underpaid working class. Whenever he heard that telltale lilt of a Venusian accent in a client’s voice he’d known it would be a well-paying case.

Given all of that, it makes sense that the government would have some of the most sophisticated protective measures he’d ever seen.

He tugs a towel from his locker and slings it over his shoulder, making his way to the showers. Jet and Rita are still fixated on that little chip, Rita talking a million miles a minute about how exciting this kind of tech is and explaining lots and lots about computers that Juno couldn’t follow. Buddy and Vespa lie sleepily beside one another on one of the recreational room’s couches, hands entwined, each with a glass of (probably stolen) wine at their elbows.

Juno is glad to get a break. The door to the showers slide open with a faint hiss, and suddenly the air is humid.

“Apologies Juno, I didn’t see you there.”

For the first since breakfast, there he is; Peter Nureyev, standing in front of the mirrors. His skin is slick, the remnants of the shower’s steam clinging to him. One towel is slung low on his hips and the other wrapped elaborately on his head. He is applying something to his face, rubbing it in with smooth circular motions.

“Sorry, I didn’t know this one was occupied —”

“Nonsense Juno, I’m done with the showers.”

Juno hesitates in the doorway. Nureyev doesn’t move, occupying himself with something in the mirror. He might be bullshitting, for all Juno knows. Juno steps forward hesitantly, and can’t resist — his gaze slides over the planes of Nureyev’s back. He’s slightly more toned than when Juno saw him last, and as he moves to pick up bottles and brushes Juno sees the muscles across his shoulders move and slide beneath his skin.

Juno steps past, and into the showers. He lets out a deep breath and stands still for a moment. Beyond that thin door separating them, he hears Nureyev begin to hum to himself. Not a tune that Juno knows, but a pretty one. He has a deep, rich voice and it makes Juno’s bones thrum along with the melody.

Juno strips and steps beneath the hot water. He risks a glance under the door, wondering if Nureyev has firmed up beneath that towel too.

He sees a towel in a puddle around Nureyev’s feet. Juno turns the heat off and lets the icy spray drench him.

When the door finally hisses open and Juno hears Nureyev leave, he’s shuddering. Maybe with cold.


	3. an art that's hard to teach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno has trouble sleeping and even more trouble getting the hang of this ‘alias’ and ‘impersonation’ thing he’s supposed to be doing. Between him and Nureyev, someone has a lot of feelings that they aren’t sharing.

 

> DAY 2

 

Juno wakes twice in the night.

The first is shortly after midnight — they continue to use the Martian day of twenty-four and a half hours — and it is because he is cold.

The bunk is too small to change in, and Juno is hyper conscious of Jet sleeping beneath him and Nureyev above. He imagines their breaths, feeling claustrophobic between them. Suddenly his skin is crawling, and he eases his bunk’s privacy curtain open.

Just that hint of fresh air is a relief. He swings his legs out and jumps down carefully. With care, he eases his locker open. He pauses at every creak in the hinges, and waits a few seconds before edging it slightly wider.

“Steel, you moron,” comes a muffled voice. “The faster you do your business the faster we can all get back to sleep.”

He freezes at the sound of Vespa’s voice. “Sorry,” he says, and for once he thinks that sounds pretty contrite. And he feels it. Sneaking around like this? He’s being childish.

“Just hurry up,” Vespa mutters, and he can hear her shifting in her bunk, rolling over.

He snatches a sweater from the duffle and a pair of sweat pants, tugs them on quickly, and closes the locker. As he moves to return to his bunk he sees the pair of eyes watching him.

Nureyev is lying on his stomach, chin propped up on his hand, and watching him silently with the slightest hint of a smile. The straps of a lacy slip are half-off his shoulders.

Juno’s breath catches and he stares back, the oversized sweater hanging over his knuckles and almost completely covering his hands.

With a cat-like stretch, Nureyev reclines back onto his bunk. “Good night, detective.”

“Night,” Juno whispers, dumbfounded.

The curtains of the top bunk are pulled back but Juno can’t stop staring. As he clambers back up into his bunk, stretching out to lay on his back, his pillow held over his chest, he feels himself breathing too quickly.

He doesn’t know when he sleeps again, but it’s with the image of Nureyev’s bare chest beneath the plunging neckline of the slip burned into his brain.

 

____________

 

He wakes again to the sound of a slightly too-loud giggle. Lying as still as he can, he listens.

“Right now, Bud?”

“Please, darling. Please.”

There is the softest sound of lips touching, and then another girlish giggle. It’s more happiness than he’s ever heard in Vespa’s voice.

He listens to the fading footsteps as they move out of the bunk area and disappear to some other corner of the ship.

Although he strains for it, Juno can’t hear a change in anyone else’s breathing. He rolls over, stuffing a pillow beneath his chest and head, and tries to fall asleep again. This time he can’t, because he can remember the way Nureyev’s laugh felt when Juno was pressed close enough to feel the vibrations through his own ribs.

 

____________

 

When Juno stumbles into the recreational room, a nutrition bar in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, it takes his sleep-blurred eyes a moment to realise what he’s looking at.

Only two chairs are occupied, and both of them glance up at his arrival. Vespa looks softer somehow, as if someone has sanded down the sharpness of her features. Her bob of green hair has been pulled back in two red clips — clips Juno recognises, because he’s seen them in Buddy’s hair. Beside her is Nureyev, and Juno’s heart stops.

He’s wearing deep purple lipstick above a lilac patterned blouse, a pleated A-line skirt beneath that. His heels are sharp enough that he could probably kill someone with them. Are they a pair from one of Mayor Pereyra’s lines?

“Juno. Take a seat, please. We were just getting started.”

Juno slides into a seat on the opposite side of the table. Behind his glasses, Nureyev is wearing lilac eyeshadow to match his lipstick.

Juno feels as though he might be sick. He takes a bite from the nutrition bar, tries to speak, and ends up choking.

“Are you awake yet?” Nureyev jokes, without humour, every word lanced with a razor blade’s edge.

Juno gasps around his choking. “Getting there.”

Vespa rolls her eyes and slides him a folder. “All your ID is in there.”

Taking a deep draught of coffee, Juno nods a weak thanks. He opens it up to find a Neptunian drivers licence, an employee access card for Aiazuki Security, an access card for a Neptunian bank, and a galactic travel passport. He looks at the name on all four.

“Hey N — Kingston. Isn’t it a bad idea to re-use aliases?”

“On the contrary, Dahlia. It frequently lends them credibility. And it makes it easier for the person using the alias to remember their name, I’ve found.”

Juno swears there’s a smirk behind the words.

“It wouldn’t do for one to have an alias and forget to respond to it, would it? A rookie mistake, really, and a difficult skill to learn, but one must always remember that the details truly make the illusion come to life.”

Nureyev leans back in his chair, ignoring Juno’s acid glare.

“We’ll keep the story simple, of course. I will be posing as Thaddeus Page, junior Dark Matters agent. Vespa, as Neomi Zemke, will be posing as my senior officer. She is the one assigned to the Dahlia Rose case. You, Dahlia —”

Juno is waiting for the ensuing ‘dearest’ and his heart lurches when it doesn’t come.

“—are a successful swindler who has been draining Venusian coffers for years. You’re also a leading suspect in the disappearance of Engstrom.”

“Oh goodie.” Juno can feel his teeth grating together.

“Rita has planted all of the correct files. You have an official criminal record.” Nureyev flashes a smile. “I’m so proud.”

 

__________

 

The rest of the morning is spent picking apart their cover, orchestrating and quizzing each other on their exact movements. Juno in particular is grilled well, in case a Venusian official asks for a statement or tries to extract a confession. Nureyev coaches him through the story, the timeline, the scores. How much he’s truly evaded in taxes. Carefully crafting a criminal background for Dahlia Rose worthy of … well, worthy of Peter Nureyev himself.

Eventually Vespa excuses herself in her usual terse manner. Something about their route, something in the cockpit. Navigation. Juno hasn’t a clue; he hasn’t been able to pay attention for hours.

Nureyev looks stunning in purple. Like royalty.

“Juno?”

He realised this was a question. “What?”

“Juno. Where was Dahlia finally apprehended?”

“Uh — Neptune?”

Nureyev rubs his forehead. “Not according to Zemke’s records. Triton, Juno, Triton.”

“Yeah. Triton.”

Juno’s stomach rumbles.

Nureyev stands. “Shall we take a break? Get something to rejuvenate us? You do seem to be losing focus, detective.”

“I’m trying,” he snaps. “Why can’t Rose be one of those silent types? Hell, if I were a criminal —”

The silence is sudden and damning.

“Well, now you are,” says Nureyev, pushing his chair in and heading to the mess. “But please, do tell me what you would do.”

“Not talk!” says Juno, following hot on his heels. Those high, clicking imperious heels. “I wouldn’t say a damn thing, because if you’re made admitting it only makes it worse. You see it in the HCPD all the time, small-time criminals talking and getting written up for more than they were brought in for.”

“And tell me detective,” Nureyev says, jabbing a finger at the electronic screen, “If someone doesn’t talk, what then, hm?”

Juno knows, but doesn’t say. Nureyev turns to him. “What then? If you have some riff-raff who won’t talk, what happens?”

“It’s not —”

“Of course it shouldn’t happen, but it happens and we both know it.”

For a long, hard moment they glare at each other. One dark, narrow eye standing firm against two clear ones that cut like diamonds in their intensity.

“I’m sure you’ve seen it before, detective. It starts off quiet, a little threatening here and there, rattling tables and banging doors, trying to shake up a suspect. Then the cameras are _accidentally_ turned off, and perhaps a small audio device, something easily wiped and edited, is brought in hidden in an officer’s pocket, so it can record the confession after it’s _beaten out of their suspect._ ”

There’s a flicker in Nureyev’s eyes, and Juno is suddenly struck with the disconcerting realisation that he’s speaking from experience. He remembers teenage Peter, thin and hungry on the streets, suddenly alone again with Mag’s blood barely dry on his fingertips, and he wonders how young he was the first time he was roughed-up behind bars.

The quiet _beep_ behind them indicates that food has been dispensed, but they ignore it.

“The best way to avoid that,” says Nureyev, his even tone back and his words reasonable, “is to know your story so well, a broken rib won’t rattle it. I have no desire to leave you to the Venusian authorities, Juno. But I also have no desire, should something go awry, to see your head kicked in!”

“Wow Nureyev, didn’t know you cared that much.”

The quip is automatic, instinctual. Juno regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth. Nureyev draws himself up, setting his shoulders back, and takes the dispensed plate. He adjusts his ear piece with one long-fingered hand, brushing it back from his cheek. His eyes glint, hard and cold.

“I wish I could say the same, detective, but unfortunately I know exactly how little you care.”

Juno is forced aside as Nureyev strides past him. “Hey — wait, that’s not fair — Nureyev! Nureyev, listen, damn it!”

From around the corner, the thief’s voice comes like an echo. “Keep your voice down, Juno. I know you don’t care for any of my gifts, but I do.”

The words crawl up Juno’s spine and bury themselves deep into his chest, twisting and writhing as he stares after the man he once thought he’d spend the rest of his damned life with.

In this instant, every dream he’s ever had of Juno Steel and Peter Nureyev, together, collides in his mind, slamming into each other at high speed. Dreams of apologies, of forgiveness, dreams with no words but the stories they would tell with their hands on the other’s skin, dreams of falling in together once more as if nothing had ever happened.

Dreams of waking up that morning and being certain that the shiny, adventurous future that Peter Nureyev had once painted with that rich, storytelling voice of his was actually the future he wanted so badly, the future he deserved. Dreams of fearlessness.

All at once, all those imagined moments that he’s kept tightly under lock and key ram him in the gut so hard he feels the tears start in the corner of his eye, and he sinks into a stool.

Juno places his head in his hands, digging fingers through his curls, and begins to sob.

 

_________

 

Rita makes him tea (it tastes like gasoline, and Juno isn’t sure how she managed it but he isn’t going to complain) and cajoles him into her bunk. They sit side-by-side, and Rita rests her head on his shoulder, their legs dangling over the edge. Rita is holding one half of the tablet that Buddy has lent her, and Juno the other. They’re wearing matching cat slippers. Juno can hardly deny Rita anything in a good mood. At this moment, he’s helpless against her fussy ministrations.

They’re watching a sad movie, since she decided that was the best way to hide the redness in his eye. A box of tissues sits on his side but she leans over him frequently to blow her nose loudly.

Buddy and Vespa are elsewhere. Jet lies in his bunk, the curtains open, earplugs in his ears and breathing deeply in the clutches of a perfectly immobile sleep. Juno’s bunk is messy, since he and Rita have stolen his blankets to enhance their movie experience.

The bunk above Juno’s has its curtains firmly closed. He isn’t sure if Nureyev is there. He hasn’t gone looking for him and he doesn’t want to. Nothing has moved behind those floral curtains, embroidered with roses, since the movie started. Juno can’t help staring at the pattern.

By the end of the movie Rita is sobbing into his shoulder, and he pats her newly green hair with what he hopes is a calming hand. They sit like that for a long time, Rita leaning on him and Juno sitting with a hundred yard stare.

They eventually fall asleep like that.


	4. a thousand lies and a good disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their deadlines approach, Buddy drags Juno into line, calling him ‘darling’ the whole time. Our ex-PI finally talks about feelings with our favourite homme fatale.

 

 

> DAY 3

 

“Get up, Juno.”

His mouth tastes like early morning and stale pretzels. He groans. Something jabs him in the ribs and suddenly he’s wide awake as he curls up into the foetal position, instinctually protecting his ribs.

“Juno. We have very little time, and I have even less patience.”

Buddy Aurinko stabs him again with the toe of her shoe, and Juno groans.

“I’m up,” he mutters, his tongue thick. He had been sleeping deeply. More deeply than he had in years. Crying does that. It empties you and leaves space for things like sleep, after you’ve emptied yourself of all the useless _shit_ you’ve been carrying around.

“Then act like it, darling. Get up now, please.”

Juno realises he’s been sleeping on the floor beside Rita’s bed. She’s sprawled across her narrow bunk gracelessly, Buddy’s tablet pinned beneath her elbow. It’s dark, the evening lights dim. With careful motions, wary of neck cramps and the inevitable floorboard aches, Juno hauls himself to his feet and follows Buddy to the cockpit.

He spares a glance back into the cabin of bunks and sees three faces, sleepy and bleary-eyed, watching him go. He doesn’t see Nureyev’s.

Buddy gestures for him to take the co-pilot seat. She drapes herself across the pilot’s seat, arranging her green night robe across herself.

“This, darling, is unprofessional. Surely I don’t have to tell you that.”

Juno makes an angry _hmph._

“We have hired you, Juno. Hopefully you recognise what that entails. It means working together, and it means getting things done. We might not always enjoy our coworkers, but in this line of work we need to afford each other a modicum of professional courtesies. Respect. Trust. A little less yelling would also be lovely.”

She sees his mouth open and holds up a hand. “I’m talking darling. Give me a moment.

“I don’t particularly care what kind of history you and Alaric have. We have precisely two chances to secure the refinery equipment, and I do not appreciate having to repeat myself, in any capacity.”

“Someone else should go,” he says, and then slams his jaw shut. _Shit_.

But Buddy just raises an eyebrow. “Who would you suggest, dear? We need Rita. Rita most certainly needs Jet. She’s brilliant but she needs oversight occasionally. Jet might appear to be a fighter, but he’s a burglar, darling. He’s very simply not built for this kind of a hit and run.”

“You. You should go with them. I’ll stay here and help.”

Buddy sighs, and lifts the sleeve of her sleep robe. Her left arm is in a cast from elbow to wrist. “I’m certain they would appreciate my moral support,” she says drily, “but they might object to my usefulness on this particular endeavour. You understand how it is. The recoil from a blaster does do wonders for healing bones.”

"But, healing injections -"

"Radiation poisoning has stolen many things from me Juno, one of them being an ability to process medications efficiently. The cure is frequently worse than the ill. No, I have to wait this one out."

Through his dry mouth, he croaks out, “I’m sorry.”

“You should be. In fact, you should be studying up. Because in one more day, you will be stuck in a cell, securing the getaway for our friend Alaric. He will be depending on you. Vespa, bless her soul, will also be depending on you. And you would hate to disappoint Rita, I’m certain.”

She stands, tugging the sleeve of her robe down again so it hides the white cast. “Today is your final day to prepare. We have a three-person infiltration planned, and I expect every member to fulfil their duty. I expect you to get proper rest, eat well, and work well with Alaric.”

Suddenly, she’s bent down so her face is even with his. Gently, she presses a kiss to the scarred cheek underneath his eyepatch, an unusually sweet gesture. Juno flinches at her touch.

“Darling, we need you for what’s about to come,” she says. “We need Alaric as well. I do hope you’ll resolve whatever it is you have festering between you two.”

Buddy turns to walk away, and tosses a casual “sleep well” over her shoulder.

Juno stares out at the stars.

 

__________

 

“Busy?”

The door to the cockpit hisses closed, and Juno raises his head just enough to be able to see the reflection of the man behind him in the glass.

Nureyev looks willowy in high-waisted trousers, ballet flats on his feet and a tank hanging loosely off him. The piercings in his ears are all studs. He looks somewhere between ready to hit the gym and ready to walk the catwalk for a street fashion line.

Juno slides the folder off his lap, rubbing his eyes. He’s covered the entire interior of the folder in notes, prompts and reminders of his backstory. A glance at the _Rover’s_ clock tells him it’s been five hours since his conversation with Buddy. No one else is likely to be up yet.

“I was reminded I have an exam coming up,” Juno says through a yawn. “Figured now was a better time than any to cram.”

“Is that how you made it through school?” snorts Nureyev. “Last-minute study sessions through the night?”

“I dropped out, actually.”

“Well, that _is_ the logical conclusion.”

Juno squints. “You talk real big for someone who never even went to school, Nureyev.”

For an instant, Juno worries he’s crossed a line. But then Nureyev’s face splits into a grin, and relief floods every inch of his body. Nureyev swings the pilot’s seat around and settles in. The chair seems as though it was made for him.

“Touché, detective.”

His spidery hands wander over the buttons and knobs, and he flips through several maps plotting their course towards Anchises. Those sharp teeth biting his lower lip in concentration, he makes minute adjustments, checking estimated times of arrival, doing a sweep for nearby spacecraft, checking the comms channels.

Juno watches him work with a quiet awe. Then, when his movements lull briefly, “I’m sorry.”

Something he never anticipated happens; Peter Nureyev _twitches._ It might be a flinch, but it’s an involuntary tic that Juno has never before witnessed. Nureyev? He’s the epitome of composure.

Usually.

“I was also overly animated, detective.” The tone is measured and even. “We are equally at fault.”

Juno leans forward and catches Nureyev’s wrist when he moves to adjust another setting on the board. “No. Listen. I am _sorry_.”

Their gazes meet, and at long last it isn’t cool detachment, or snark, that Juno sees there. It’s exhaustion, it’s trepidation. And it makes every part of him ache with something he’s very familiar with; regret.

“I’m sorry you woke up alone. I made a mistake. I wish I hadn’t every day since.” Now the words tumble. “I see you, you know. I see you everywhere. Your name is the first one on my tongue, before these strangers in the street turn and I realise there’s thousands of them and none of them are _you_.

“Nureyev, I am so sorry. I should have told you that, before. I never meant for this to happen.”

Carefully, Nureyev extracts his wrist from Juno’s grip. “I understand, detective.”

“You — what?”

“Emotions run high in tense moments. Moments before a planet destroying bomb, for example. Or moments of extreme blood loss. People say things they don’t mean in delirious moments.”

“No, damn it!” Juno’s hands are shaking. “Peter, I wanted to — I wanted to leave with you. But when I saw you, just _sleeping_ —”

“Goodness detective, I know I’m a blanket hog, but there’s no need to add insult to injury —”

“I was scared, alright?” He practically shouts the words. They thunder through his ears in time with his pulse. “I was scared that I didn’t deserve you. I was scared you were going to leave me, so I left you first. I was scared of what I didn’t know and I have paid for that every day since.

“Seeing you — you cocky bastard, you should have known, seeing you changed everything. I was here to try and do something right. Do actual good, the best way I can. Now?” He stops for breath. “Now I don’t care. I want you, Peter Nureyev, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m still scared. I still don’t deserve you, because things don’t change that fast, _people_ don’t change that fast and I’m a slower learner than most. But damn it, _I am trying_. I am trying and working and falling apart to be better. For Rita. For you. For me. I want to deserve all those stories you told me and I want to deserve those evenings with you and damn it if I know that will never happen, but I want it anyway.”

Nureyev’s face is carefully, studiously, blank. Wiped of emotion, of recognition. Juno’s eye searches for some kind of hint that he’s on the right path.

“I know I screwed up. I don’t deserve you and I don’t deserve a second chance. But I just — you needed to know.”

Slowly, Peter reaches out a hand, and cups Juno’s cheek beside his good eye. Juno leans into the touch, feeling hopelessly like a plant straining for the slightest hint of sunlight. He feels the wetness of more tears. He’s going to cry himself into a husk. He remembers saying he’s not much of a sobber, and he meant it. But he’s working on getting better, and that includes being more honest.

“It’s easy, in this line of work,” whispers Nureyev, “to get lost. I trade off names because I have to. I change personalities because I need to. Sometimes I forget it’s a necessity, and I get too invested. You made me remember that. You reminded that underneath everything else, there’s Peter Nureyev. When you left I … I assumed you’d done what I always had. Lied your way to what you wanted, taken it, and slipped away without a trace.

“It hurt, Juno. I won’t lie to you about that. It hurt, deeply. You reminded me that I am, after stripping away all the layers, Peter Nureyev. And I thought you cared about that, who I am underneath everything. When you left after one night together, I assumed you’d been there for one thing and you’d gotten it.

“Seeing you again on Mars, I wanted to remind you of that. I wanted you to remember that you’d come for something and taken it, and I wanted to remind you every single day we were cooped up in here that you’d never get it again, if that was what you wanted so badly.”

“It wasn’t,” Juno says, and then trips over his own tongue trying to clarify. “I loved it, Nureyev, but I — I loved you more.”

“Oh, Juno,” Nureyev sighs, and runs his hand down Juno’s neck to his shoulder. He looks caught for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to pull him closer for a hug or to push him away. He settles for a squeeze of Juno’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare get your head kicked in tomorrow.”

Juno feels the tears coming again. He thought this lump in his throat couldn’t get any bigger, but it threatens to swallow him before he can swallow it. He nods wordlessly.

“Get Rita to test you.”

With that, Nureyev turns back to the controls, and Juno stands, curling the too-long ends of his sweater into fists around his fingers. He leaves and only the lingering hiss of the door closing behind him hints at his presence.

 

____________

 

Rita tests him. Juno aces every question she throws at him in her rapid-fire, interrogative manner. Idly he wonders why the HCPD never put her in a room with a suspect. They would get half their perps begging to confess.

Juno dresses. Vespa gives him the clothes, telling him that Alaric picked them. Clothes nicer than what he would usually wear, but still old and ragged. (That says something about his style but he refuses to acknowledge what.) He tugs on the suit coat and tightens his buckle, and stares at himself in the mirror.

They all gather in the recreational room as Buddy and Vespa land the ship in Anchises. Juno’s seat is across from Nureyev’s, but he doesn’t glance at him once.

The bay door lowers slowly and in the bright Venusian day that would continue for the next 116 days, the Ruby 7 with a fake license kicks up dust on the streets.

Juno sits in the back seat, and watches through the window as the lilac dome of Adonis approaches. Adonis, and his first foray into this new life he’s chosen for himself.

He’s so focused on it, he misses Nureyev’s backward glances in the rear view mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I shamelessly name every city on Venus after one of Venus/Aphrodite's lovers in mythology? Yes, of course I did.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments, feedback and kudos always welcome! Let me know what you think. You can also find me on tumblr, @mistah-aluminum


End file.
